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# The Contest

#### by Ryan Myint

The copyright of this article remains with the original author. Articles may be copied or distributed freely for personal non-profit use, provided that the author is properly credited.

As told by Niamh ní Faind ó Scathach to her daughter, Étain.

Hola! young one, but you are lively today... aieee! leave that be! The venom will not forgive you your childish ways, and I am too old to bear fruit again. A story, you want? Aye, we have many stories here, we who once were the heroes, and not the tellers. Which shall it be? The tale of Cu Chulainn and the sea-serpent? The saga of Conall Cearnach and Cet... what is that you say? Your name? How did you come by your name? Ah me, but that is a tale I should have been telling the sooner.

Étain was my sister-in-blood as well as my sister-in-arms, and she was the finest and noblest warrior I have ever known. So light of foot that she could run across a pit-trap without breaking a single plaited withe. So deft of hand that she could pluck an arrow from the air before it pierced her breast. So swift of blade that a bout against her was like wading, neck-deep, in the river.

Our mother, Fand, had taught us both the arts of war and bloodshed, as I shall teach you when you are of age. Aye, these are the same arts that Scathach taught to Cu Chulainn six hundred winters ago, passed from mother to daughter like the gold of our hair or the dark of our eyes. And though I was the older by some three winters, Étain it was who ever emerged the victor.

Did I hate her, you ask? In childhood, perhaps. But I was proud of her too, for she was the champion among us all. Aye, there were some more fleet of foot, and I myself more sharp of eye, but none so strong of will... and none who excelled in all the arts of war, as she did. And in her the fire of youth burned with a strange ardour, for she would dream of leaving the Valley, of going out amongst hairy-chested men, of testing her skills against those who had never seen the Valley. For the champions of men come here but seldom now, and many there are who think us but tales to frighten beardless boys.

No, there have been no warrior-men here in your eight summers. Aye, you have heard the sky split twice, when men have fought clear of the swamps that shield us from all but the hardiest, and found their way through the Vale of Mist and Wall of Cloud to ring out their challenge upon the Stone of Fear. But both of those men failed the Trials our ancestors placed at the Valley's mouth, for only the worthiest of men are fit even to approach us.

It was ten winters ago that he came, he who was to take Étain your name-sake from us: the only warrior-man to have challenged us and triumphed since I first came to heed such things, these thirty winters past.

The summer had given way to fall, and the leaves were streaked with gold and russet-brown. Étain was nineteen winters strong, never mightier. Fand our mother lived still, an elder among our people, wise and hale.

When the levin-thunder came, we leapt with the thrilling of it, for we had not heard the levin-thunder for three winters past, nor watched the whitefire of a challenge dance across the heavens. Early morn it was, for ever must the men rest between the crossing of the swamps and the finding of the Stone, they who know not our hidden paths.

We armed ourselves at once, though we knew it would be an hour and more before any man could pass the three Trials that followed the striking of the Stone, the two score of us who were full-grown but not yet in motherhood. And well that we did, for barely had I buckled on my cuirass when Clothra ní Eairc, whose turn it was to guard the Valley's mouth, came running across the Testing Field like an arrow towards the village, her raven hair billowing behind her like soft fletching against the wind.

"Make haste!" she cried, "he will be upon us at any moment!"

Everyone began to talk at once, for it had been barely ten minutes since the levin-thunder filled the heavens, and the last warrior-man to reach the village - ten or so winters before - had struggled for two hours to pass the Trials.

Now above the din spoke Ailbhe ní Caion, who was then the Eldest, more than sixty winters wise. "How is it," said she, "that this one has come so swiftly? Has he found the hidden paths?" And we quietened, to hear what Clothra might reply.

"He has not walked the hidden paths, Eldest. He conquered the Trials like a maiden might stretch her limbs, as if it were the most natural and simple thing in the world."

"The Trees of Fire, how did he pass through them?"

"Like a maiden strolling at sunrise; and though the fire flowed across his head and breast, he was not scorched."

"The Field of Thorns, how did he win across it?"

"Like a maiden exercising at noon, with a single graceful bound. His cloak fanned out like eagle's wings; he leapt from field's edge to field's edge without putting foot to soil."

"The Wind of Ice, how did he endure its bite?"

"Like a maiden retiring at eventide, with his cloak wrapped around and his head held high. His pace was slow but even, so that he stumbled not, though ice and snow smoothed his path to a deadly sheen."

The Eldest paused then, as if remembering, I know not what. "We shall meet him on the Testing Field," was all she said.

We marched out onto the field, the Eldest leading us and the elders at her side. Even as we did so, he emerged from the screen of woods and strode onto the field from the other side.

Aye, we watched him every step, as if he was the most marvellous thing we had ever seen. Tall and powerful of body, with the bearing of a crowned king. His hair was dark as midnight, and tangled like a briar thicket, though he moved his hand to smooth it as he walked. His green eyes were pale, almost grey, but fierce with strength of will. And though he was not handsome, like some men I have seen on my travels, his face drew us all like bees to a blossom.

He wore armour of hardened leather, as we did, but with plates linked by studded steel. A broadsword hung from his belt, its hilt bright with twisted gold. A shield lay across his back, over the dark red cloak. He carried a longbow lightly in one hand, the quiver hanging loose at his shoulder.

There was an aura about him from the first that chilled my marrow, as if he were a monster in the shape of man. About me my sisters-in-arms drew back a pace, or drew together. All save Étain, who watched the man with eyes afire.

When he spoke, many among us trembled, for all the courtesy in his voice and manner. It was the ancient tongue he used, thereby doing us honour.

"All hail," he said, " to Danu the Earth and Dônn the Sky, the Mother and Father, indivisible yet apart."

"All hail," said the Eldest in response, keeping to the ancient tongue. "In whose name do you come?"

"In the name of the oak and the ash, the storm and the sea. In the name of the cup and the spear, the wand and the stone. In the name of the Nine and the Seven, the Three and the One." Again he did us honour with his knowledge of our ways.

"For what purpose do you come?"

"I offer battle to the Uí Scathach, that they might grant me a boon." We almost cheered, although we knew full well that he could have come for naught else.

"By what name are you known, warrior?"

"I am Ciaran mac Cumhail ó Ronain, also called Mac Ronain." The name meant nothing to us, yet we thrilled with the tones of it.

"You have travelled far, Ciaran mac Cumhail ó Ronain. Will you not eat with us before the feats of arms?" The old, old trap: if he were to eat of our food, or drink of our wine, he would be bound to us always.

"I thank you for your hospitality, but I have breakfasted well, and prefer to meet your champion as soon as I may."

"Choose your opponent, then." The Eldest used the common tongue now, for we were not all adept in the ancient speech.

"Who is mightiest among you?" He was looking at Étain even as he spoke, and she at him. Had she been of age, and going out to seek a daughter, she might have chosen just such a man for the father. His hand moved through his hair, unconsciously, straightening the tangled waves but for a moment.

"My daughter is mightiest, Ciaran mac Cumhail ó Ronain." I started at the note of our mother's voice, so certain had I been that Étain would be the one to speak out. "But it seems you already have perceived this."

He was still looking at Étain when she spoke for herself. "You know the price of defeat, Ciaran mac Cumhail ó Ronain?"

"Aye, maiden, I do." His voice did not falter, nor his gaze waver. "You will feast on my flesh to gain my strength, suck the marrow from my bones to gain my courage, and steal the seed from my loins to father daughters. As the she-wolf and the war-crow do, so shall you follow." He had learned even of our goddess, then, whom men of old had called the Mór-Ríoghain.

"You seek not the mercy that men show to fallen foes?" Where had she learned that ugly lore, she who had never left the Valley?

He smiled then, a grim smile that never reached his fierce grey-green eyes, and there was a hint of mockery in his tone. "I think you cannot know what it means to a man to have his seed cut from him. No, I am content to follow your ways."

"Three feats of arms, then. If you win any one, we shall grant you your boon." He nodded, and shrugged off his shield and cloak, and laid down his bow and quiver. He stretched his arms once, then picked up his shield. The linden-wood was bound and bossed with iron, and bore the device of a red, three-lidded eye, set on a field of white. The Eye of Balor, god of Winter and champion of the Fomhórach. The symbol of a power no less ancient than our own.

Étain excelled above all with the great spear, but her skill with sword and shield was still greater than my own. She put aside her spear, and took up her weapons, emerging from our group to stand facing her challenger. They saluted as one, and the first test of arms began.

The challenger was fast, but Étain was the faster, and after the first probing exchange of blows, he settled back to wear her down with his superior strength and endurance. Like flashes of lightning across the sky came Étain's blows, and a moment after the thunder pealed out from the shield's iron. Time and again the challenger lashed out with a blow like a pouncing hawk, yet Étain always danced aside, her own attacks never faltering in their pace.

For an hour they fought thus, the challenger holding his ground and Étain dancing around him. Twice she won past his defences, blooding him across his side and more deeply in his leg. Ever more fiercely she attacked, playing to his weak side and leg. And ever more steadfastly he defended, though the blood was flowing freely and his breath began to grow ragged.

I could see Étain growing weary herself, but she fought more brilliantly than ever in her exultation. And at length she feinted low, over-extending into his reach. When he brought down his sword upon her raised shield, smashing it into splinters, she was already rolling aside, tackling him on his wounded leg and bringing him down. He was stunned for only a moment, but it was enough for her to put her sword at his throat and bid him yield.

He yielded.

We offered him rest, of course: no need to continue with the feats of arms until the morrow, but he refused. "Grant me but half an hour," he said, and dragged himself over to where his belongings lay. Étain had sunk to the ground, heedless of the blood that soaked it, her battle-fire spent. She was watching him still.

He peeled off his outer cuirass, acknowledging no pain as it came free of his wounded side. His under-jerkin of soft leather was quilted and smooth, save where the ragged tear was thick with crusted blood. He leaned back for a time, his head resting against his rolled-up cloak, and his breathing grew easy.

There was a strange odour wafting on the breeze as he arose, and strains of unknown music haunted my imagination, reminding me of the unease his first approach had given birth. His limp had gone as he made for his bow and quiver, and his arms seemed filled with strength once more.

Étain rose eagerly to confront him, and the second test of arms began, with targets painted onto the trees at the edge of the Testing Field.

He was a magnificent archer, much more skilled with the longbow than with the sword, for the outcome of the first duel had never really been in doubt. For two hours they shot at circle after circle, as the targets grew smaller or they backed further away.

She did not speak: it was not her way. Her concentration was fearsome to behold, and though he seemed less utterly-absorbed, to my mind he was more fearsome still.

It was noon by the time they finished, the sun unusually bright that warm fall day. In truth I think they could have battled on till eventide, had his bow-string not snapped, shooting his arrow far, far wide of the mark. She offered to ignore that round, as was her way, but he refused, yielding her the victory.

I think that grieved her then, for only the spear or wrestling remained, and she knew that she could conquer in both. But the rest of us were exultant, already looking forward to that evening's victory feast.

"What is your third feat?" she asked as they returned together to where his belongings lay.

He looked at her then, his head cocked slightly to one side and this time his smile was bright in his pale eyes. He reached down and picked up a pouch, shaking out the contents into one cupped palm. "Fidchell," he said, hefting the silver playing pieces.

Was that relief or renewed fire I saw in Étain's face? Fidchell was a feat of arms of a kind, I supposed, but it had never been offered in memory or in legend, and she might be entitled to refuse.

"How do you know I shall accept?" she asked, uncharacteristically playing with him.

"I don't," he replied, his tone even but inviting.

"I accept," she said.

He held out the pieces. "King or captors?"

Étain chose the king, and a board was brought from the village. They both sat upon the grass as they set up the game. He loosed the thong-fastenings at his jerkin's neck to ease the noonday warmth, and I saw a torc of double-twisted gold around his throat, with the device of the three-lidded eye cunningly worked in thrice along its length, wrought in blood-red gold.

From the first it was clear that Ciaran mac Cumhail ó Ronain was a master of the game. His moves were confident, and swift as thought. Étain was skilled, as we all are, but slow, and he waited patiently between each move.

At first her king sped across the board with little resistance, for Ciaran mac Cumhail ó Ronain was gathering his forces at the wings. And then, suddenly, she found herself trapped at every turn, and her king stripped of his followers. For three hours they played, and hunger gnawed in our bellies as we watched.

Étain's king ducked and dodged with the same agility she herself enjoyed, but ever did his enemies move to intercept. He could have captured her a score of times, but he held back, and at length I realised that he was waiting for her to yield.

She yielded.

"What boon?" she asked, as food was being brought for us all, now that his victory protected him from the dangers of accepting our sustenance. He ran his hand absently through his thicket of hair and accepted a cup of cool water from one of the slave-men, who are no longer truly men.

He paused, and looked down at the board as if suddenly unsure of himself. When he looked up again, his face was strong. "You will forsake this place and follow me, all the rest of your days. Across sea and sky, through storm and fire, in blood and in darkness. You will be first among my lieutenants and honoured of me, though you may never win renown. Such is the boon I claim, Étain ní Faind ó Scathach, first among warrior-maidens."

I watched excitement and apprehension give chase to one another across her face as she listened. What he asked - nay, claimed - was an outrage, and it was some time before any of us realised that Étain, in her youth and folly, might be minded to grant it.

Our mother Fand was the first to speak. "We are the descendants of great Scathach: we follow none but ourselves, and we will live in no-one's shadow. We will not grant such a boon to any man."

Ciaran mac Cumhail ó Ronain must have expected this, for he answered at once: "You granted such a boon to Cu Chulainn."

"Cu Chulainn was no man!" snapped the Eldest, before our mother could speak again, "but born of the gods."

He had expected this, too. He rose swiftly from the grass and unfastened his jerkin the rest of the way, pulling it off. Under the ragged tear was a patch of dried blood, which he washed off with his cup of water. The skin beneath was unbroken and unscarred.

His lips moved briefly, murmuring words in a tongue I did not recognise. But his eyes burned red, and we drew back in fear. Our nostrils twitched at the strange scent that seemed to fill the air, and our ears strained to hear the distant music - almost keening, almost rejoicing. Such smells, such sounds, were not of this world, and we were looking to the Eldest for her response when he spoke again.

His voice was greater than a thousand drums, aweing rather than hurting us, though the blood in my temples pulsed with each beat of his speech. "I am no mortal man," he said, and his body seemed to gleam whitely while a faint red mist issued from the soil at his feet.

The signs were clear, and the Eldest had no choice but to obey.

We did feast that night, but in farewell rather than in victory, and on the morrow Étain ní Faind ó Scathach left the Valley forever. A year later I left the Valley to find you a father, young one, and I asked after them wheresoever I went, but it seemed that none had heard of them.

I returned with my heart still aching, and my belly filled with you: and so you became Étain ní Niamh ó Scathach, to honour both you and her.